The Sins of their Father
by alirodina
Summary: Chapter 7: In which Sirius meets some grave misfortune and Wormtail leaves the house.
1. The Beautiful People

The Sins of their Father

Author's Note: Harry Potter and the rest is to J.K. Rowling.

This is my first (and probably only) AU fic, so please bear with me. Quick beta by sakuya01, although it goes without saying that mistakes are my fault alone.

*

Chapter One: The Beautiful People

There was never much love lost between the members of the Black family, and by virtue of inertia, it was doubtful there would ever be. Grimmauld Place, which was the ancestral house, could have been filled with so many effigies—ancestral or not—for all the emotions displayed by the people therein.

It wasn't even that the Blacks felt no emotions at all quickening their noble hearts. Far from it, to tell the truth. What was written in the family archives describing the doings of Blacks long gone to their rewards was proof enough of rivalry, misplaced love and smoldering looks exchanged under shadowed staircases. But such chronicles of great men and women were for the eyes of their descendants only, and to the outside world the Blacks continued their cold and mysterious existence; gracing balls and official gatherings with their beauty and sharp wit but never stepping down far from their exalted pedestals. They married within themselves, naturally, because their blood can never be less than azure.

So in a few words: they weren't the most pleasant of families, the Blacks. And the recent scions of this ancient and most noble house were no exceptions.

The head of the family was currently Orion Black, son of Arcturus and Melania Black (nee McMillan), who is not really good for anything but managing the production and sales of potions and artifacts that were legal only by the thinnest strand of his ebony hair. He also had a finger in every pie ever baked in the Ministry of Magic, although he would never so far as get directly involved in anything. He had learned early, through parts deduction and parts osmosis that operations fared better without interruptions. Uninterrupted business being those activities considered legal, Orion always made sure that he was operating within the bounds imposed by the Ministry. There were a few times when he had to move beyond the restrictions, of course. But that was what friends, money and the sheer power of the name Black was all about.

Orion wed Walburga Black when he was twenty eight and she eighteen. It was a marriage of convenience, as was customary, but which suited both parties well enough. The Blacks were all beautiful people, after all, as if nature found it necessary to mask such glaring deficiencies with perfect countenances and well-formed limbs. This did much for the general conclusion that being betrothed to a Black was not a bad thing, on the contrary. Unless one was the kind who cared for other people's character, which was highly unlikely in any case. Character was inconvenient and rarely thought about. People who tended to consider character when dealing with others never advanced far from their standing in society.

Suffice to say, the Blacks were also above such trivialities as liking and loving. They _were_— character or no—and they were beautiful, rich and powerful enough that such things were considered a small flaw. And even a quaint one, so that if anyone ever saw a Black beating a small animal to death with an umbrella, as James Potter had done a decade ago, they would have regarded the scene with the same tolerance a kindly uncle would, looking upon a child caught stealing cookies from the jar.

The child James had seen with the dog had been no other than Orion and Walburga's only son and heir, Sirius Black. James had been walking past Grimmauld Place when he heard a whining sound coming from the part of the hedge nearest the gate. Curious, he stood on the tips of his toes so that he could look over the brick walls and at a small boy who was too busy with the dog to notice that someone was now looking at him with rounded, disbelieving eyes.

James must have made a sound, though, because after a while Sirius Black looked up and smiled at him, revealing one uneven eyetooth. The smile was quite a fetching one, charming even, so that it seemed quite logical to beat a dog up because it happened to shed hair on one's favorite bench. He reckoned no person who could smile like that meant any real bad.

Only later did he realize what had happened, and how dangerous a person Sirius Orion Black was.

Sirius and James were of the same age, which was now twenty-three. Now that was not an easy age to be, all in all. Rougher for a bloke than a bird, even. Because when a wizard hit the venerable age of thirty he was expected to have several children on the way already and a good house near the good parts of London, if not right in it. So twenty three was the time a bloke was hard pressed to settle down, land a stable job and begin looking for the perfect female to build a nest with.

James Potter was unemployed, knew no trade (Unless flying can do anyone good. He was also quite good in deflecting curses.) and had no one to vouch for his character in case he did want to learn one. He used to have a job minding the counter at Borgin and Burkes down at Knockturn Alley. But he got cut off after hexing an overly excited customer who'd tried to pawn off a Hand of Glory that nearly tore James' head off his shoulders.

So it wasn't particularly surprising to see him now applying as a kitchen help that summer of 'eighty three. What was surprising was that the illustrious Black family seemed willing enough to take him on. Not that he ever saw them in the flesh, or they him. The hiring and firing of servants being quite a source of joy for one Horace Slughorn, whose ugly mug James would gladly have slugged as the head butler looked him up and down with a curl of distaste disfiguring his mouth.

"Hardy, are we?" said Slughorn, whose voice was higher in pitch than James was expecting.

"I'm known to be quite resilient," said James, adding as an afterthought, "sir."

"I hope so indeed. We have no time for nancies here at Grimmauld Place. You know the family you would be serving, of course?"

"The Blacks, sir?" said James, refraining from raising his eyebrows. As if, he thought, it wasn't their coat of arms plastered on every damned thing in the house.

"And their family words?" said Slughorn, as if reading James' mind.

"_Toujours Pur_, sir," said James. He was no great shakes at French, but even he knew what that meant.

"You are pureblood, then?"

The question threw him off a bit. He had heard a lot about the Blacks, and how they were remarkably selective as to their associates and the rest. But never had James considered the fact that the Blacks only accepted pureblood wizards as servants. No wonder they were keen to take him in. It must have been hard looking for such employees when pureblood usually meant old (and moneyed) family. James' own ancestral fortunes falling even before his father was born, he considered it a stroke of coincidence that he was indeed pureblood. He had never felt that it mattered before, until now.

He was beginning to understand Dumbledore when the old wizard said that James was one of the few who can actually do the job.

*

Sirius cut the pack of cards and spread them out on top of the desk. His companion, Bertha Jorkins, who was the daughter of a business associate of Orion's, giggled behind her fan and fluttered her eyelashes at him. He pretended not to notice as he filled their goblets with wine again, wondering if he should enchant all the clocks in the house to go faster so as to end this ridiculous interview.

He disliked Bertha, who was fat and plodding and coarse in manner. He hated how she started talking of the latest gossip as soon as they've sat down. As if he, Sirius Black, was interested in the vile habits of peasants like her! But he maintained a polite façade, saying 'You don't say' at the proper intervals and surprisingly succeeding in not cursing her at all.

She was ugly and dull and that was her misfortune, he told himself. If she wanted to bask in his beauty in a short while, who was he to deny her? Also, he wanted that rifle he had seen from a Muggle shop last week, had already exceeded his accounts at Gringott's and therefore had to keep his filial side of the family bread sufficiently buttered.

"Can you read my fortune then?" said Bertha, indicating the cards.

"If you wish," said Sirius. _Married to a Squib because no one else would have you. Dying of apoplexy at fifty, poor thing._

They were interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. Sirius turned away from Bertha, glad of the excuse to do so, to see the door already opened by a boy in livery. He was preceded by a gueridon bearing a teapot and some related tea materials.

"The Master sends his regrets, he would be late for tea on account of his meeting," the boy murmured, when he was close enough to Sirius to make sure that he would be heard.

Sirius looked the boy over. "Who are you?"

"Remus Lupin," said the boy (he did not address Sirius as 'sir', Sirius noted somewhat irritably).

"You're new."

The boy—Lupin—said nothing, although it was a well known enough fact that the Blacks ran through servants like Fudge the Minister did mistresses. Instead, he arranged the tea things on the desk without meeting anyone's eyes like a model servant. Which, knowing Slughorn, Remus Lupin probably was.

"A couple of sugars for me."

Lupin handed Sirius his cup.

"I said two sugars."

"I've already added them in," said Lupin, pointing at Sirius' cup and stirring its contents without touching anything.

Wandless and wordless magic, Sirius noted. Which was all pretty high level for a servant, even at Grimmauld Place.

"Use the silverware." All the silverware was enchanted to glow red at the touch of most poison. You can never be too sure, being the only son and heir of the Black family riches. Unless Bertha would kindly taste the tea for him. And how would he like drinking tea from a cup that has already touched dear Bertha's fish lips?

"Why?" Lupin raised an eyebrow at him, obedient servant's mask slipping off and allowing Sirius to see the sardonic impatience characteristic of most talented young wizards.

"Oh, leave him be, Sirius. I think it is lovely what he did. Like a parlor trick," said Bertha.

Sirius noted with amusement the boy's wince to hear his feat—which was harder than it looked—reduced to mere parlor trickery. Then he said, "I don't pay you to ask questions. Or to perform silly tricks. Do as I tell you."

Lupin met Sirius' gaze at last, although it was impossible to know what was going on behind his own mud-colored eyes. He waved his hand to empty Sirius' cup, before repeating his earlier preparations, doing as Sirius told him this time. The only indication of his anger was the slight tremor in his hands when he handed the cup back to Sirius.

Sirius smiled at the boy, earning himself a faint blush (which was a normal reaction. Sirius was used to it.) before taking a sip. Paranoia be damned, he wasn't going to his own funeral as blue as the proverbial violet. Not with Barty Crouch junior blathering on about assassination attempts on Sirius' person. No. It was better to be thought crazy than dead. Unless it was the sort of death where he can look good as he does in life, as successful assassination attempts rarely ever are.


	2. House of Cards

The Sins of their Father

Author's Note: Harry Potter and the rest is to J.K. Rowling.

This will be SBRL eventually, I promise. And yes, 'mud-colored' is indeed a most romantic way of describing Remus' eyes.

Thanks to sakuya01 and tehru for acting as beta and sounding boards.

*

Chapter Two: House of Cards

"So, you're new here as well?"

Remus looked up from the piece of parchment he had been perusing with a carefully filtered expression of irritation on his face. It would never do to be openly hostile to the other servants, since he didn't really want to draw attention (bad or otherwise) to himself, but he wasn't planning on making any friends either.

"You could say that." He had, for the record, been received into the household staff a fortnight before the other boy even saw Slughorn, but Remus didn't think it necessary to mention this fact.

"I'm James Potter." The boy sat across the table from Remus, leaning down both his elbows to look at the parchment between them. "What's that?"

"A chart. Did you want something?"

"Just to talk, you know? Body needs to relax once in a while, see, get to mingle with others." Potter leaned further across the table. "That's a moon chart, right?"

"Sharp, aren't we?" said Remus, pushing the chart away from himself with a slight shrug. "What do you want?"

"Well, you could tell me your name, for a start."

"I'm Remus Lupin, much good it does you," said Remus, standing up. Someone from above was ringing the bell labeled 'study', where Orion Black was talking with one of the Jorkinses. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have some things to attend to."

Potter smiled, leaning back against his seat and rocking the chair a bit. "So, you're French, or something?"

Remus sighed. "What I am or where I'm from is certainly none of your business, Potter, but no. I'm not French. Now if you please."

He tried to close the door gently behind him, but failed.

*

_Dear Wormtail,_

_Working here is a bitch, you know that? If I wasn't earning fifteen Galleons a month, I'd gladly kick Slughorn's fat arse scarlet to kingdom come._

_There's a new bloke working here as well. Funny fellow, that one. Name of Remus Lupin, like the flower. I asked him, but he says he's not French. Doesn't hang about with the rest of us too much._

_Would want to write more, but Slughorn never sleeps. Think you can give me a nice bedtime story? _

_Ta,_

_Prongs_

*

Bertha was on her fourth helping of cake, chattering all the while about someone's affair with somebody else's wife. To be honest about it, Sirius liked a woman with appetite. He liked his birds curvy and with stature, unlike those waifs you saw in the pictures who all looked like they'd break at a glance. But this was just ridiculous.

"So I figured he was still carrying on with her, even though she said their relationship was purely professional."

Sirius nodded, tracing the carvings on the end of his spoon lazily. He contemplated thrusting the blunt side of it into Bertha's fleshy neck, wondering if she would let out a pop like a small balloon once it punctures her. Surely the sound would be better than the ones she was making now, which were reminiscent of his last stroll down the aviary with his mother. All that screeching and squawking and the presence of Walburga emanating waves of disapproval behind him, which made the adventure a memorable one and not something he'd want to try again in a while.

He stood up, the spoon in his hand, when the door opened without ceremony and that cursed servant entered again bearing a decanter of wine.

"I didn't ask for wine," said Sirius, frowning.

"Courtesy of the Master Orion," said Lupin, bowing his head. He sounded a little out of breath and his hair looked like something Walburga's precious birds would want to lay eggs in. "If you would just—"

"Where is he?" hissed Sirius, barely restraining himself from clawing at the boy's bony wrist and giving the latter a violent shaking.

"And where is papa as well?" Bertha called out, accenting the last syllable to her 'papa'.

"Listen to other people without interrupting, then I can say that your honorable sires would be here shortly and wish you to ready yourselves accordingly," Lupin went on, his eyes fixed on the spoon in Sirius' hand. "Can I have that, sir?"

"What," said Sirius, in his best arrogant voice. "Has brought your knickers in a twist?"

The boy looked like Sirius had just slapped him in the face with a piece of cold herring. "Wh—I beg your pardon?"

"I would not have my servants talking to me in that way," said Sirius, in a softer tone. He doubted Bertha, who was seated across the room from them, even heard. Of course she would take note of this and would most probably tell the next person she comes across to that Sirius Black was carrying on secretly with one of the servants. Maybe even adding with a (bitter) sniff that she never thought Sirius' taste would run in the 'scarecrow' side of slender.

Lupin held out a hand not holding the decanter. "You'll hurt yourself, sir."

"That's better," said Sirius, holding up the spoon and looking at it as if he didn't know what it was doing in his hand. "Father would be coming down soon, you say?"

"Yes." Lupin winced as he accepted the spoon, placing it quickly inside his coat pocket. "Would you be needing help with the wine?"

"Oh, yes. Pour Miss Jorkins here a goblet, would you." Sirius waved in Bertha's direction. _If it's not poisoned, then more's the pity_. "I myself would prefer another cup of tea."

"Yes, sir."

"And Lupin?" Sirius didn't continue until the boy was looking back at him. "Brush your hair once in a while, will you. There's a good chap."

*

_Prongs,_

_Fifteen Galleons are the dog's bollocks, as you very well know. I myself get only five a month. _

_I don't know too much about bedtime stories, but try this one for a start: In the summer of 'sixty-eight, John went to the morgue for a visit. _

_The rest would be up to you._

_Methinks you need to sing Slughorn a lullaby._

_Wormtail_

*

James leaned his back against the door and planted his heels against the cracked tiles. Beside him, he could hear Rita Skeeter chuckling a bit at the admittedly silly situation they were in.

"OK, let's try that one more time," she said. "You should really eat more, boy. Put more weight in that skinny body."

"How come the door's stuck, anyway?" said James, ignoring Skeeter's comment, which he had heard more than enough times to last him until his next incarnation. By then, he hoped, he'd have the same chiseled chest and powerful shoulders that Shacklebolt has now and make all the birds swoon.

"Well, we're starting this new archiving technique, see, called the microfiche. It was Evans who suggested it, brilliant young lady, that one. Muggleborn, of course, but nobody's perfect, right?" said Skeeter.

You should get to see the Blacks sometime_,_ thought James. Out loud, he said, "Microfiche?"

"A Muggle concept. It's like a picture, you see, only you have to view them in this machine." Rita made a boxy hand gesture that James figured suggested the shape of the microfiche machine. "It saves a lot of time and space, and lasts better than actual paper." Skeeter had turned back towards the door, pushing so hard her face was turning alarmingly red. "Put your hips to it, boy! I think it's finally moving a bit. The morgue has been quite abandoned while we were trying to transfer all the 70s edition of the Daily Prophet—"

"Rita," said James, as he felt the door finally give way behind him. "I'm sorry, but what do fishes have to do with newspapers?"

He frowned ferociously when she let out a great peal of laughter.

*

"Are you sure you can manage? I have this deadline I need to meet, you see," Skeeter let her voice trail away.

James nodded, lifting a large box marked '68' and disturbing several inches of dust that gave rise to a protesting cloud so thick it obscured Skeeter's rather manly face from view. He sneezed.

"Just give us a call when you're done, right? I'll have Evans lock up after you." She left the door open behind her, and James didn't want to tempt fate by closing it back even a fraction. Besides, he reckoned he would look less suspicious if he acted like he was really just looking up the obits and wishing (like everyone else) that one of those rich blighters who died were related to him. Not that he was up to anything sinister. But being secretive about the whole thing would just attract unwanted attention.

James set the box down on the floor and sat down next to it. He didn't really have an idea what he was going to find in the paper that Wormtail thought important enough to refer to (and suggest James that he tell Slughorn about it) but James Potter liked to do his job right, and he was the kind of person who commits the cast of characters to memory before watching the play.

He just hoped that it was important enough to be worth skipping out on dinner and risking a flogging from Slughorn if he gets found out. Sighing, he searched through the pile of yellowing newspapers, punctuating the whole enterprise with several hearty sneezes and cursing Wormtail for being such a dramatic ponce.

It wasn't like they could have sent lengthy letters to each other, of course, because that would be like sending James back to Grimmauld Place wearing a banner with 'I have a secret!' written across with ink that changed colors. Instead, Dumbledore had provided them both with separate pieces of parchment that allowed them to communicate directly to each other. And even then they had to use some kind of code because a wizard with any kind of intelligence can translate the surges of magic that makes the two-way parchment work and 'read' what they had written there.

That was no excuse for being so damned mysterious about the whole thing, though. 'Went to the morgue for a visit indeed'! If it had been Skeeter who let him in, James sympathized with this John character a lot.

He found what he was looking for in the May issue. Smiling a bit, James pulled the newspaper out from the box and began reading the front page news:

**Curse Breaker Reveals Voldemort's Deal with Gringotts**

John Lupin, who works as a Curse Breaker for Gringotts, testified today as to the deal that Voldemort had made with Gaptooth, who is currently the head goblin of said bank. There has already been much speculation relating to Voldemort's connection to the Valley of the Kings project, wherein the staff of Gringotts are preparing to excavate treasure from one of the pyramids. It had been noted by several sources that Voldemort lately had been spending more time in Egypt than his own home and had even left some of his business to be taken care of by Lucius Malfoy, who steadfastly refused to comment upon the issue.

According to Lupin, he had overheard Voldemort talking with Gaptooth about the layout of the pyramid and the possibility of one hidden chamber—

James scanned the article desultorily. He had missed the particulars of this piece of news, since he was no more than nine or ten when it came out, but he knew enough to know that Voldemort hadn't been after the treasure after all, but the curse that one wizard had written in the hidden chamber. The agreement had to do with Voldemort funding the project itself in exchange for the hieroglyphs that the curse was written with. Several curse breakers have died during the extraction, one of them being John Lupin himself, who should have left things well enough alone, in James' opinion. Especially since he had a Muggle born wife and son waiting for him back in Leeds.

James did a double take. _Muggle born_ wife. If John Lupin was indeed Remus' father—and James couldn't see why Wormtail would want him to find all about the bloke if that wasn't the case—then that explained much of Remus' taciturn nature. Considering that he'd get thrown out of Grimmauld Place in a blink if anyone finds out that he was a halfblood, James could see why the other boy wanted to keep to himself.

But there was also the question as to why Remus wanted to work for the Blacks in the first place. He was a skilled enough bloke; it stood to reason that some other family would take him in whose views on blood-standing aren't as strict as the Blacks. From what James knew of Remus, he didn't think the other boy was the kind of person who would act so rashly, even out of desperation.

No. Remus had a damned good reason for being at Grimmauld Place, and the fact that he got in without Slughorn finding out that he was a halfblood from his records showed that he had some sort of influence over the Ministry, or knew people who did.

James sighed again. Remus Lupin was turning out to be quite an unexpected variable in the game, and James wasn't even sure if the other boy was working for himself or with others.

"Excuse me?"

James turned towards the open door, startled. A girl was standing by the threshold, one hand stretched out towards the doorknob.

"I need to be closing the office now. Do you have everything you need?" she went on, stepping inside. "You have left the lights out, do you realize?"

"The streetlights were enough," said James.

"You should take better care of your eyes," the girl said, looking pointedly at James' glasses. "Are you finished with that?"

James looked down at the newspaper that he was still holding to hide his warming face.

"Yes." He leaned down, riffling through the box to find the place where he had taken the particular issue from.

"Oh, no need to bother with that. Just place it back in the box, the archivist would take care of it." The girl smiled, holding out a ring of keys and shaking them a bit so that the keys made a jangling sound. "Let's go then?"

James stood up too quickly, feeling the blood rush to his head so that everything looked black for several seconds. "OK."

"Are you all right?"

He took a deep breath. Now or never. "What's your name?"

"Evans," the girl said. "Lily Evans. Why?"

"The lady of the microfiche," said James. "Did anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are?"

She laughed. "Well, no. Are you?"

"I just did."

"As far as I remember, you have asked me a question, which is quite different from stating a fact. Look, Mister—?"

"James Potter."

"Are we going to stand here talking all night? I need to go home."

He went out of the morgue, turning back to watch Lily Evans lock the place up. The light was better in the hallways than inside the room, and he noted the deep russet shade of her hair, the cinnamon flecks of freckles scattered across her creamy skin. James suddenly realized that he liked cinnamon. He liked cinnamon a lot.

"Can I walk you home, then?"

Lily waved one hand down to her waist, where her wand was tucked in her belt. "I'm quite capable of protecting myself, thanks very much."

"It never entered your mind that I might be asking for the sake of keeping you company?"

"Good night, Potter."

*

_Wormtail,_

_Voice not up to much singing tonight. It might even scare away young Lupin, who looks like a full night's sleep would do him wonders. _

_John's story is not fit for bedtime at all. Now I'm finding it harder to sleep you git. _

_Shaklebolt tells me that Bertha Jorkins is telling everyone who'd listen that young master Black is buggering Lupin. I wonder if there's something in all that. Is anyone else paying court to the blighter?_

_Prongs_

*

The clock on the mantelpiece told Sirius that he had already missed three appointments and was quite late for two others, barring a theater party with the Prewetts, which promised to be a bore anyway.

"Are you listening to me, Sirius?" Orion leaned down his desk, tapping the fingers of his right hand against the polished obsidian surface.

"I don't see what it has to do with us," said Sirius, shrugging. "And Voldemort better leave things as they are if he knows what is good for him."

Orion nodded, sinking back against his chair and closing his eyes. "That's what I told Jorkins. Death Eaters!" Orion made a sniffing sound. "If you could pick an appellation more common than that! But there are rumors, you see, about Cygnus…."

"Does Walburga know?" Uncle Cygnus was, after all, Walburga's brother. Sirius held out one hand in front of his face and began to check on his fingernails.

"Of course not. There's really no evidence to support Jorkins' claim that Cygnus is one of them." Orion waved the idea away almost lazily. "See to it that Fletcher investigates the matter further. I don't really trust that Antony Jorkins, barging in here and telling me how to run my business."

"Probably he wants to remain in your list of friends, you know, sweetening you up a bit," said Sirius, conjuring a nail file. "Trading information and all that. Really, father, what did you expect? If what he'd said about Voldemort is true, we might as well believe that the foundations of this society—"

"Yes, I know what Voldemort is trying to do," Orion cut in, impatiently. He'd raised one hand to his face, massaging his temples with his thumb and forefinger. "And I must admit that he does have his points. But styling himself as a lord and gathering followers—this so called Death Eaters—well, who does this man think he is?"

"You hate him because he encroaches on your territory," said Sirius. "No need to splutter at me, father. Remember that Jorkins went to _you_, and I'm sure more would follow, to inquire as to your opinion. They'll stand where you will, if only for the sake of having someone powerful to back them up. In this case, yours would always be the hand that rolls the dice."

"You would think that Voldemort would approach me first." Orion smiled. He enjoyed the idea that Voldemort was afraid of him, and Sirius knew that his father's conjectures as to why the other wizard hasn't talked to him yet was probably right. "What do you think I should do as to this matter?"

"Why ask me?"

"What do you think I would do, then?"

"You would let them rot in hell, as you've always done." Sirius sat up. The clock has struck ten. "There would be people opposing Voldemort, too, I'm sure. And if there's a war, we'd have to weigh what we'd gain against what we might lose, wouldn't we?"

"Certainly."

"And if it is true about Cygnus?"

Orion shrugged, looking back at his son. "Then Cygnus must be eliminated. You know what to do."

"May I be excused then?" If Sirius hurried, he might be able to go to Dearborn's card party after all.

His father waved him away. Sirius was already halfway towards the door when his father called him back.

"Yes?"

"Be aware."

"Aren't I always?" Sirius gave Orion a small smile.

*

_Prongs,_

_Because someone's being a git and has been questioning my literary prowess, I'm pleased to inform you that I'm now reading more books for inspiration. _

_Anyone could sing lullabies. If you're not careful, someone else's dulcet tones would have Slughorn's ears, and too much singing is considered noise. Just make sure that you sing a pretty song._

_It would be safe to assume that you have a contender against young Black's affections. Consider flowers?_

_Wormtail_


	3. Happiness in Slavery

The Sins of their Father

Author's Note: Harry Potter and all the rest is to J.K. Rowling.

Upping the ratings on this one. Light bondage at the end, so if that's not your thing, don't say I didn't warn you. :D Beta by junjou romanticist (I'll be answering the wand question next chapter… I hope) and me. Yay.

*

Chapter Three: Happiness in Slavery

The water had gone slightly cold when Sirius stepped into the bath. He sighed, prodding one of the taps with his toe and releasing a flood of mint-scented water that sent the bath overflowing.

"Is everything all right, sir?" said Lupin, from behind him.

Sirius threw the servant a look from over his shoulder. The boy was getting into the habit of entering rooms without knocking, and while Sirius didn't really give much of a damn for decorum, he did value his privacy.

"Don't do that."

"That, sir?" So the blighter was acting coy, raising one eyebrow at Sirius as he placed some towels on the back of the chair where Sirius had laid out his dressing gown.

"Knock before opening the damned doors, I meant. What if I had someone with me?"

The boy blushed, although the rest of his face remained as it were.

"I did knock, sir. And I would never have entered the room if I thought you were occupied."

"That's one way of putting it," said Sirius, who was sure Lupin did nothing of the kind. "How were you sure I wasn't?"

"You were alone when you got back to the house last night," the boy said, softly.

"I wasn't aware that keeping an eye on me was part of your duties," Sirius observed. There was a separate entrance to his room that was directly connected to a staircase at the back of the house, built at Sirius' own orders. The steep stairs were worth a broken neck on drunken nights, and the whole thing was like an open invitation to various opportunists to have a go at him when he's asleep and undefended, but Sirius did have some business the rest of the family was better off not knowing and which Orion understood well enough.

So Sirius didn't know how Lupin could have observed his return to Grimmauld Place without Sirius being aware of it, and the fact irked him, like Lupin's penchant for being a nosy git and how he seemed to be standing close by wherever Sirius turned.

"Slughorn asked me to lock up the house after you," said Lupin, interrupting Sirius' thoughts. "Will that be all, sir?"

Sirius nodded. "Wait. You will help me dress later."

Lupin bowed slightly before walking past the bath to stand beside the door. Sirius smiled at the servant before beginning to touch himself under the water, fingertips idly tracing the line of his foreskin and letting his head fall back, dark tendrils of his hair like ink strokes on the water and on his shoulders.

Lupin's eyes narrowed slightly when he heared Sirius' breath hitch, comprehension dawning on his dark eyes and the shock bleeding over his features before Lupin caught himself and got his mask back on again.

So he stood there, not taking his eyes off Sirius even as Sirius got into his task, stifling his moans as both his hands—slick now with soap and vanilla-scented lotion from the other taps—began to go up and down the length of his cock, stroking now gently, and then desperate, one finger playing with the tip until he did let out a sharp cry in spite of himself.

His eyes met Lupin's from across the room, steam and bubbles and his own desire blurring his vision even though the boy stood there in sharp focus, looking at Sirius with his hands carefully folded over his stomach.

Sirius wondered how that impassive face would look, with Sirius' cock pressing deep into Lupin's arse and Sirius' hands pulling, forcing the boy's desire to peak. Until there was only that place where their bodies were joined and Lupin's low, hoarse voice calling out Sirius' name desperately; begging, _pleading_ for him to give it hard and deep, make him come.

As Sirius released his load into the bath water, he was already thinking about when and where he was going to fuck Remus Lupin.

Damn Bertha for being right, anyway.

*

"Where have you been?"

Remus refused to meet Slughorn's eyes, choosing instead to stare at the monocle dangling from the older man's waistcoat pocket. "Upstairs. I was cleaning up the young master's—"

"The young master," said Slughorn. Something in his tone made Remus wince inwardly, suggested stinking alleyways and dirty fingernails digging against pale flesh and Remus decided that he didn't like the old butler at all.

"You were the one who assigned me as his valet," said Remus, coldly.

"Only because Lord Voldermort ordered me to!" Slughorn burst out, pacing the room now with heavy steps. "I have been hearing some talk—some disturbing rumors—"

"If you're uncomfortable about me shagging your precious young master, then rest assured," said Lupin, allowing one more degree of warmth to drop from his tone. "I'm not and he isn't. I doubt the thought has even entered his mind. Really, Slughorn, some people have more to think about than scratching their itch. You shouldn't believe everything Bertha Jorkins tells you."

"I don't care about whatever sort of deviant behavior Sirius indulges in behind closed doors," said Slughorn, hastily. "That's none of my business. What I meant was that he never—well, I meant that Lord Voldemort has told me nothing of the reason why you had to be admitted into this household and I've been hearing some rumors—"

"Are you saying that you suspect Voldemort of some scheme?"

"Do you deny it?" said Slughorn, looking at Remus beadily with his myopic eyes.

Remus shrugged. "It has nothing to do with you. Why would you want to entangle yourself into things by playing the nosey parker?"

"Because I was the one who let you into the house, even knowing what you really are!"

Remus took out the wand he was hiding in his sleeve and pointed it at Slughorn. His movement was unhurried, deliberate, and he made sure that the expression on his face told the older man that Remus was perfectly capable of following through with his threat. "Calm down, Horace."

"Don't point that thing at me," said Slughorn, warningly. He stepped backward, ending up against the edge of his desk. His hand reached out to clutch at one side of it. "I swear, Lupin, if anything happens to Sirius Black and those fools in the Ministry suspect me—"

"You'll what?" said Remus, conversationally. He did not lower his wand. "Plot revenge against me in Azkaban? Are you Voldemort's supporter or not? Surely you know that the lord takes care of his own."

"And you?" Slughorn laughed. Remus could see drops of sweat trickling down the man's face and soaking the collar of his shirt, but the butler held his ground nevertheless. Orion was indeed a fearsome man if he can demand such loyalty from his servants. But Orion wasn't Remus' problem. "Once you've done what you'd been sent here for, what? What makes you think they won't catch you, anyway? And don't even think about Fudge allowing you a trial. It's off to the Azkaban with you at the tip of his bowler."

Remus shrugged, finally letting his hand fall back to his lap. "That's my business."

"Sirius isn't stupid, Lupin," said Slughorn, sounding almost sympathetic. "If he finds out, well, Fudge would be the least of your worries."

"Have you never risked your life on the roll of a dice, Horace?" said Remus, pleasantly, as if they were having this conversation over tea and scones.

Slughorn didn't stop to think. "No."

"Well I have." Remus smiled. "It's the only way this world allows me to live. Good day, Horace."

*

It was another card party, at the Malfoys' this time, and Sirius was not so much drunk as saturated on good wine and those figs that Narcissa Malfoy liked so much. He was better at maths when he wasn't quite sober, though, which meant that he was on a winning streak that night and had to go away from the card table before people started challenging him to duels.

"No fault of theirs," said Lucius, the host, as he joined Sirius by the balcony. He was carrying two flutes of champagne, handing one of them to Sirius with a nod. "Betting is parts pretending and parts chances, after all."

"Pretending?" said Sirius, taking a sip of the champagne.

"To have money. Pretending that they can afford it," explained Lucius.

"Bagman?" said Sirius, tentatively. If anyone found fault with Sirius, it was that he didn't listen to gossip, so that he was always behind the news.

"If you will. He's not the only one, though. There are many of them at that table." Lucius' tone suggested a smirk, even though the expression on his face had the 'where have you been, son' look about it. As if to confirm this, Lucius went on, "You know how the times are changing, Sirius. The line between us and them is getting more marked and it seems to me that you are not so much aware of this as ignoring it entirely. Narcissa is worried about you."

Narcissa was Cygnus' youngest daughter and Sirius' cousin. There was no love lost between them, but that was not something Sirius can say out loud with any modicum of politeness.

"Is there anything in particular that I've done to make her so?" he said, instead.

"Oh, it's nothing as specific as that." Lucius waved the idea away and laughed softly. His false jollility made Sirius want to grit his teeth in frustration, but Sirius didn't do things like that. Walburga would have a fit. "But you might want to consider showing us where you stand among the scheme of things."

"What are you saying, Lucius?" said Sirius, flippantly. "Where else would I stand?"

"Your father has been quite reticent regarding his support of Lord Voldemort," said Lucius, slowly. He turned towards the railings of the balcony. "And you know how much influence he has over the wizarding world. The ton, in particular, regard him with the highest esteem."

"Orion always does what he wants, you know that." Sirius downed the rest of the champagne, noticing with growing irritation that the older man hadn't touched his own. If it was poisoned, well, at least he'd managed to piss off Lucius Malfoy before going to his eternal rest. "What I tell him would be no more than the buzzing of bees, for all the consideration he'd give my words."

"I'm well aware of Orion's stubborness," said Lucius. "But people think quite highly of you, too, Sirius. You are Orion's son, after all, and his heir. If you just—"

"I don't do politics, Lucius," Sirius cut in, drunk past politeness. "There are more interesting things to attend to and life's too short to waste on powerful people not getting along."

"Well, then, what do you concern yourself with?" said Lucius. "Buggering the servants?"

"Why not, if said servant is pretty enough?" Sirius laughed. "Why don't you tell your lord Voldemort to get himself a nice bint and get it over with?"

"You're drunk, cousin," said Lucius, with barely restrained venom.

"Of course I am. You're famous for your excellent taste in wine, after all," said Sirius, reaching out to take Lucius' untouched flute of champagne. "Do you want that?"

"You should listen to young Crouch, Sirius," said Lucius, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

"Do you have the guts to do it here in your own house?"

"It won't be me to do you in, so have as much as you want." Lucius handed the champagne over. "Who knows when you'll be drinking your last?"

*

Lupin was rearranging the logs in the hearth when Sirius got back to his rooms. He sighed, taking off his cloak and leaving it on the back of a loveseat. The cloak was wet, and who knew the damage water can do on the upholstery, but Sirius reckoned he could just cover it up with a new tapestry for Walburga's next visit, which only happens once in a decade or so anyway.

"Wretched weather, as always."

Lupin said nothing, looking at Sirius briefly before going back to what he was doing. Sirius noticed that the servant was wearing kid gloves, the whiteness of it stark against the black and silver of his livery. In the dimness of the room they looked like disembodied hands holding a poker by the fireplace. And the ivory mask of Lupin's face above them.

"I'd like some rum."

"I think you'd have enough drink," said Lupin, softly. He rose from his crouching position more gracefully than Sirius would have expected from such a lanky body, but then again, clumsiness didn't belong with Lupin somehow.

"If I pass out now, that's one more night you get to spend unacquainted with my bed," said Sirius, slowly. The deliberate way he chose his words told him how drunk he really was. The thought made him smile inwardly. He tended to be a mellow drunk. Sometimes. "Or you can do with me what you will, as Lucius Malfoy had failed at quite terribly. Either way benefits you, no doubt. Give me the rum."

"Why don't you help yourself then?" said Lupin.

"Does my father really pay you to give me lip?" Sirius sighed again, loosening the ribbon that held his hair back in a ponytail and sinking down on his bed.

"I think you've had a long night," said Lupin, trying not to wince as the melted snow and bits of mud on Sirius' clothes got transferred to the bedclothes. "Your nightclothes are already laid out beside you. Shall I get the bath ready?"

Sirius shrugged, undoing the many buttons of his coat. "Help me with this."

"And here you are, thinking that you can do with more alcohol in you." There was a shadow of a smile in Lupin's tone, and Sirius noticed that the boy's face wasn't quite as severe as usual as Lupin crossed the room to stand by the foot of the bed.

"Do you know what the other servants are saying?"

"It ill befits you to listen to kitchen gossip."

"Do you mind so much?" Sirius gave up on his coat, lying back on the bed instead and resting his weight on both his elbows as he looked up at the boy. When Lupin didn't answer, Sirius laughed. "Get undressed, Lupin."

Lupin paused, half-bent with his hands reaching out to help Sirius get out of his wet clothes. "That's not a good idea, sir."

"Swallowed the etiquette book, haven't you? Don't you have anything more creative in your repertoire?"

"I don't get paid to give you lip, apparently." Lupin straightened back up, looking down at his palms. "You're an idiot, aren't you?"

"Such a way to address your master. I can get you sacked, can't I?" Sirius matched the servant's tone, although his own voice had more humor in it. And more alcohol fumes.

"You won't even remember this conversation tomorrow."

"I know how to remedy that." Sirius smiled, tugging at the ribbons of his jabot with one hand. "_Accio_, Lupin."

He caught the boy with his free arm, shifting his position so that Lupin was lying more comfortably on top of him. "This isn't so bad, is it?"

"You're wet," Lupin pointed out. "And you smell like dog."

"If I let you go now you're going to hex me unconscious and blame the rum the next day." Sirius' hands began to travel from the sharp curve of Lupin's hipbones to the boy's arse. Lupin, who was suspiciously stronger than he looked, tried to push him away, stopping only when Sirius wrapped one hand around his neck. "What have you got to lose, Lupin?"

"Don't tell me rough play doesn't turn you on," Lupin gasped.

Sirius laughed softly, lifting his hips so that Lupin can feel how hard he was.

"Well, yes," he admitted, grudgingly. "You know it's going to happen, anyway, why fight against it?"

"You don't know me, Black," said Lupin, his breath catching when Sirius' hand travelled lower, back arching involuntarily so that Sirius could feel the boy's hard-on rub against his own even through a thousand frustrating layers of damp clothes.

"I trust myself." And because he couldn't stop himself, Sirius bent down to nuzzle the boy's unruly hair, taking a deep breath of the strawberry shampoo that Lupin used; the incongruous scent sending a painful message from his brains to the very balls of his cock. "Do you want it to be rape, Lupin?"

"Don't."

Sirius snapped his fingers, conjuring ropes that trailed down from the posts of his bed. Lupin looked up at him, eyes wide. The boy's fingers tightened on the lapels of Sirius' coat, but Sirius hadn't taken his hand from Lupin's neck yet and the boy wasn't taking any chances.

"Tell me if it hurts you," said Sirius, against the curve of Lupin's ear. He used magic to tie the ropes around Lupin's wrists, reducing the slack of the ropes so that Lupin had to scramble up in a sitting position over Sirius, his arms spread wide. "Let me wallow in your pain."

"Someone's a poet," said Lupin.

Sirius let go of the boy's neck to slap him on the mouth.

"Speak only when I say you could." He reached out, kissing Lupin deeply, pulling at the boy's lower lip with his teeth and tasting the sweet vanilla taste of sugared paper that Lupin rolled his cigarettes in. Sirius had caught him at it one day, the stolen moment and a memory of Lupin relaxing when he thought no one was looking at him.

Lupin moaned against Sirius' mouth, their teeth meeting painfully as the boy began to kiss back, pushing at Sirius so that it seemed like a battle between them, seeing which one would back off first. Sirius smiled inwardly. He'd played games like this before, and knew the rules well enough to make them suit his purposes.

So he broke the kiss, applying himself to taking Lupin's clothes off before the other boy could catch on to what he was doing. His eyes narrowed as the black fabric of Lupin's livery fell back to reveal the pale flesh of his chest, the angry pink lines marring the smooth, creamy surface.

"Old master treated you badly, huh?" he said, tightly, tongue flicking out to give one cinnamon nipple the briefest of licks.

Lupin made a growling sound from the back of his throat, pushing himself against Sirius. "Forget that. Please. Just—please."

"Seems like I'm not the only one who enjoys rough play," said Sirius. His hand tightened on Lupin's waist, and he picked through the tangle of emotions he was feeling to realize that he was angry. "What have you done to yourself?"

"Why do you care?" Lupin said, looking directly at Sirius. In the flickering firelight, Sirius realized that the boy's eyes were almost noctilucent: glittering gold in the half-dark.

Sirius took a deep breath. "Because you're mine."

"It was a long time ago. I was a kid." Lupin finally looked away. "And I was stupid. It's not what you think it is."

There was more to it than that, Sirius knew, but there was no way he was going to try solving the mysteries of Lupin's past when he could be doing other, more important things. Without saying anything more, he bit at Lupin's nipple, pulling at it as he had done with the boy's lips, tugging and sucking until Lupin started rubbing against him again, whimpering.

"Fuck me, please. Fuck me."

Sirius smiled, moving away from under Lupin so that he was kneeling on the bed in front of the boy and no part of their bodies were touching anymore.

"A good servant only knows to obey, Lupin," he said, reproachfully.

Lupin struggled against his bonds, the rope cutting at the flesh of his wrists, rubbing them raw. He was breathing heavily, sweat-slick body almost glowing in the dimness and his hair catching the light like a candy floss halo. Sirius began undoing the fly of Lupin's trousers, releasing melting, trembling heat. He held Lupin's cock briefly, fingertip brushing across the tip and feeling the wetness there before concentrating on getting Lupin's trousers off. Someday someone was going to invent a spell that would take care of little details, like getting people naked more quickly and with minimum effort. As it were, Sirius had to do with a lot of patience and a cunning flip of his wrist, pulling Lupin's trousers and pants down to his ankles and effectively binding the boy's feet together as well.

He slapped the boy's cock playfully before kissing the tip, feeling the blood pulsing under the sensitive skin before taking Lupin's cock into his mouth, nipping when he felt Lupin thrust against him. His hands grabbed at Lupin's hipbones, the hollow of his stomach making them perfect handles, to stop the boy's movements.

"What did I say, Lupin?"

Lupin's voice was hoarse, breaking in mid-sentence. "Please, Sirius, please. I can't—"

Nobody has ever said Sirius' name in that way before. He smiled, saying the words around Lupin's cock, "What do you want?"

"Inside," said Lupin. He was frowning, eyelashes fluttering closed when Sirius began to suck hard at his pulsing flesh. Sirius looked up, noting Lupin's flushed face; the way the boy was turning a moist pink that reminded Sirius of the inside of a shell.

Sirius got off the bed, moving to stand behind Lupin while his fingers fumbled to undo his own trousers. Next time he would get the boy fully naked and taste every forbidden part of his spare body, but right now he was too close himself, wanted nothing more than press himself into Lupin, fuck him hard enough the whole house would hear him scream.

He said as much to Lupin, whispering furiously against one pink ear and feeling the boy tremble against him, and then Sirius was thrusting inside, his own cock slick with pre-come, past the rough opening and the tight, tight warmth. Someone gasped as he pulled almost roughly at Lupin's cock, feeling the boy's arsehole tighten around him.

"Sirius!"

"Yes," said Sirius, thrusting harder and hearing the bed creak under Lupin. He leaned against the boy, so that Lupin was supporting most of his weight, Sirius' knees banging against the bed frame.

It didn't take long until Lupin was shuddering against him, letting out a poorly muffled scream and sinking down so that the ropes were taut around his wrists, thrusting back so that Sirius' balls were flush against his arse.

Sirius gasped as Lupin's arsehole pulled at him greedily, tighter than before, and his thrusts slowed, not letting more than an inch of his cock out of Lupin.

"Remus," he breathed out, before coming himself. "Remus."


	4. The Point of No Return

The Sins of their Father

Author's Note: Harry Potter and the rest is to J.K. Rowling.

The lines that Sirius quotes in the first scene comes from Robert Frost's poem, "Road Less Travelled". There is actually a better way of getting Sirius' point across, but 'eating the strawberries' is already taken.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was mentioned already in the second chapter, but due to my sieve-like brain, I forgot to mention that he was working at Grimmauld Place as the head groom (I've fixed it now). To my defense, there used to be a sentence with James telling Wormtail who Shacklebolt was in that same chapter. Except it got edited out and I forgot. My apologies.

*

Chapter Four: The Point of No Return

Remus' hand was already on the doorknob when Black's voice cut through the faint sounds of motor cars bleeding from the shuttered windows.

"What makes you feel alive, Lupin?"

"You're wrong," said Remus, so softly that the crackling of the fire from the hearth would have drowned the words out, except that through the course of the night the fire had died into a reddish glow of coals and ash and neither of them have bothered to build it up again. He let his hand fall down to his side.

"Yes?"

"You're wrong, it's not that." He took his gloves from the pocket of his waistcoat, clutching them in one hand and looking down at the soiled kid as if he had never seen the like before.

"What then?" There was the hissing sound of cloth against cloth from behind Remus, and he knew that Black was getting dressed although he seldom leaves his room before lunchtime. Usually he just sends for breakfast in his own chambers, as did the rest of the family.

"Many reasons," said Remus, with a suggestion of a shrug. He began to put on his gloves, although the fabric clung disgustingly to his skin, like holding someone's hand. "Think of it as a moth's attraction to light, if you will."

"Moth," said Black. The volume of his voice warned Remus that the other boy had stepped closer to where Remus was standing, although he never heard Black's footsteps on the naked floors. "Doesn't suit you at all."

"What then?" said Remus, almost playfully. Voldemort would have his hide and sell it at Knockturn Alley if he ever found out about Remus' flirtations with the heir of the Black family, but after last night, Remus doubted he could do any worse to risk the lord's anger.

"A cat perhaps." Black's fingertips were cold against the nape of Remus' neck, making him shiver. There was a pause as Black withdrew his hand. And then he was tracing the line of Remus' throat with his lips, tongue darting out to leave a wet trail towards the sensitive part hidden by the high collar of his shirt.

Remus moaned softly when he felt Black's teeth against his skin.

"Or a wolf. Something feral like that, belonging to the wild."

"A poor wolf I'd be," Remus said. "To get trapped here, wagging my tail for you."

Black laughed at the double meaning of Remus' words, which had not been intended, though no less lewd. "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—"

Remus reached out for the knob again, turning it so that he heard the lock click open although he did not pull the door open yet. "Yes?"

"I took the one less travelled by."

Remus couldn't keep from laughing, although his heart had started to beat rather painfully against his rib cage. Black's flashes of insight could be terribly accurate for someone who was supposedly uninterested in politics. But then again, he was Orion Black's son.

"And so the doll can quote pretty lines. I'm impressed."

"You'd be surprised, Lupin." Remus turned around to look up at Black. The other boy's eyes looked almost black, in the weak light of dawn, and the set of his lips made him look colder than Remus had seen him, even after the debacle about that overcooked fowl for dinner a couple of days ago.

And then Sirius grinned, ruining the effect and making Remus more wary than before. "Some toast would be appreciated. And chocolate to drink, of course."

Remus bowed. "Very good, sir."

*

Sirius waited for Lupin's footsteps to fade away before rekindling the fire with a flick of his hand. Cursing when the flames roared from the hearth in great flickering tongues, he waved his hand again to bring the fire down until it was a manageable crackling again. Wandless magic was tricky at best and was used only for spells that allowed for some inaccuracy. Not that any spell can be said to allow for inaccuracy exactly, but there was after all a marked difference between building a fire stronger than was intended and transferring half of one's body to Siberia. Better wizards can usually calculate all the variables affecting wandless magic and adjust accordingly, casting spells that include for details like stray wind velocity and upsurge in the Ether that made wandless spells so unreliable in the first place.

It wasn't ever the wand that makes a wizard, as Phineas Nigellus was fond of saying to the fresh-faced young Blacks brought to the Portrait Room to learn the Basics of the Craft from the first Patriarch himself. Wands were there as a focus, a catalyst, but never the magic itself.

"That," Phineas would smile so widely Sirius always thought he would crack the already crumbling paint used for his portrait. "That magic is _you_."

Sirius had no idea why they had to learn wizardry from a portrait hanging on the wall and certainly he did not relish having his cousins there with him, but that was how most purebloods have been taught magic. There were schools for the instructions of young witches and wizards, of course, but those were mostly for the Muggle-borns and halfbloods. And maybe impoverished purebloods who do not mind mixing in with such riffraff. Some families hired tutors for the instruction of their children, but Orion firmly believed in tradition and maintained that Phineas had taught all the previous generations of Blacks better than any living, breathing upstart tutor could. And so it was for long sessions and classes in the Portrait Room with Sirius and his cousins; the whole arrangement which would have been comfortable enough if not for Narcissa's complaints about the lack of pillows on her chair and Andromeda's constant mishaps with everything she touched.

Orion wasn't wrong in keeping to tradition, that much Sirius could give him and Phineas Nigellus. Lessons from the long deceased Patriarch were rigorous, with Phineas paying close attention to each one of his students and making sure that they not only learned their lessons, but learned them _well_. But coming of age and representing the Blacks as Orion's heir for the first time to the public, Sirius was quick to realize how he was quite ahead of his peers in the matter of education (among other things) and that having any sort of advantage was good when dealing with other people.

Which all means that wandless magic should not be any problem to Sirius Black, who had learned exactly how to accommodate magical variables before he even knew how to load a gun. And it irritated him now that one relatively sleepless night was enough to make him lose control over such a daft thing as building a fire.

It had been quite a night, of course, except that it had left Sirius distracted and it was a state he seldom relished spending on an empty stomach.

He reached out for a canister resting on the mantle of the fireplace, took a pinch of its contents and scattered it over the fire.

"Do you listen, Fletcher?" he said.

"I listen and await orders, as always," came the answer from the fire while a figure began to form and revolve within the flames themselves. A few seconds more and a large man was stepping out from the grate, moving as if to dust his shabby coat but stopping when he met Sirius' cold stare.

"Save it," said Sirius, moving back towards the wine cupboard to fetch his guest and himself some rum. "I won't have your dead cells all over the floors, if you please."

"You called?" said Mundungus Fletcher, smiling so that his yellow teeth all but shone in his swarthy face. He accepted the goblet Sirius handed him with a slight bow. "Don't mind if I do, ta, Sirius."

"Do you have anything for me, then?" said Sirius. Fletcher was more in Orion's employ than Sirius' own, so that he took liberties. Those that Sirius allowed only because finding a new informant from Fletcher's side of the wizarding world was even harder than making Walburga happy. There were limits, of course, but Fletcher was wise enough to know when to toe the line. Sirius wouldn't have trusted him if he wasn't.

"That's a negative on Cygnus Black. We have nothing on him, so he's either playing it _very_ safe—"

"Not his style."

"Or he's never been entangled into this whole crapping business in the first place," Fletcher finished, taking a gulp from his goblet.

"And his daughters?"

"His daughters?" Fletcher's tone suggested that Sirius might be needing to visit St. Mungo's soon, but he knew enough not to say anything the like.

"Yes, Dung, Cygnus' daughters," said Sirius, spitting out Fletcher's name like the insult that it was. Sometimes he bothered to sound agreeable when speaking to the older man, but Sirius could hear his stomach grumbling and what he really wanted now was to be back in his bed buggering Lupin witless in between slices of toast and chocolate. Maybe even with. "His daughters who are all married—barring poor Andromeda, of course—to men of no little influence to the ton. Those daughters."

"I'll get at it. But you know we could always run a check on their husbands first—"

"Lucius Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange are public figures, Dung. They would be spraying dizzying amounts of rose-scented perfume all over themselves to hide the stench of shit they are wallowing in because they need to," Sirius explained, with more patience than he expected from himself. "Their wives, on the other hand, can do whatever they want and mask it as feminine whiles that the public allows—no, _expects_ from such silly bints."

"You have it backwards, I think," said Fletcher, chewing on the idea and finding it quite foreign to his palate.

"No," said Sirius, placing his goblet onto a table without drinking from it. He didn't quite trust his stomach yet. "Listen, men are allowed their mistresses, they are allowed a scandal or two, and they might even be political ones. But those are the minor things. Something of the same scale as this societal reform that Voldemort wants, well neither Lucius nor Rodolphus can very well get caught in the middle in case it fails, can they? No, because they need to maintain their positions in that very same society they want to change."

"On the other hand, their wives would be free to do so," said Fletcher, catching on. "Malfoy's been pretty vocal on his support of Voldemort, however."

"Cocks crow," said Sirius, dismissively. "That doesn't mean they bring about the rising of the sun. Ignore Lucius for now. Cygnus and his _immediate_ family are our problem."

"All right."

"And Lupin?"

"Mostly clear," said Fletcher. He hesitated. "None of the blokes downtown know of him, actually, seemed like he went by the name of Romulus before he got into your employ."

Sirius frowned at that. Slughorn's records said nothing of such. "And his real name?"

"Oh, the files you gave me were flush. He _is _Remus Lupin, except that when he needs to do business downtown he goes by that other name. It's mostly shady transactions—no Dark magics involved, just potions and ingredients that would cost more bought from a licensed shop, that sort of business."

"And his family?" And why, thought Sirius, would Lupin bother to change his name for such trivialities?

"None that we know of. Both his parents died in 'sixty-eight and left him to the care of one uncle." Fletcher pointed to Sirius' goblet with another smile. Sirius nodded him on, waiting until the older man had downed half of the rum before speaking.

"And this uncle has a name?"

"Tom Riddle," said Fletcher. "Gone to his reward a couple of years ago. Lupin worked a while as a tutor for the Greybacks before getting admitted to Grimmauld Place."

"Rough crowd," was Sirius' comment. The Greybacks were one of those bloodline anomalies that not even Walburga can quite segregate as pure, half or Mudblood entirely. The family was too old to be entirely of Muggle origins, but neither did they have much by way of money or power. Sirius barely knew them. The Blacks would have nothing to do with people like that. He remembered the scars on Lupin's body and figured he had found out the reason behind them, whatever the boy said otherwise.

"And, er, Sirius?" Fletcher stopped, hesitating yet again. Sirius wondered what had gotten the usually tactless man squirming now.

"Yes?"

"His mother was Muggleborn," said Fletcher, hurriedly. "That wasn't in the records, but I checked. The Ministry files backed up what you gave me, but some er, documents say different. He's a halfblood, that boy."

Sirius nodded. He had expected as much. "Is that all?"

Fletcher shrugged. He was looking at Sirius closely, as if trying to gauge his reaction regarding the apparent unsuitability of his new lover (that is, if one's own valet can be said to be suitable at all), but if Fletcher had been expecting Sirius to be surprised—and maybe even annoyed—well, Fletcher would have to live with his disappointment.

"And Potter?"

"No mysteries to that one." Fletcher chuckled. "All his records are pretty much as they should be. He's close to Dumbledore, though. Now that's a man you might want to watch out for. Pretty much the figurehead to those in opposition to Voldemort, you know. Probably wants to keep an eye on your household, see which way Orion bends."

"All the luck to him," said Sirius, with a smile that barely escaped being a smirk and only because of the general comeliness of his features. "Thanks very much, Dung."

Fletcher looked closely at the goblet he was still holding. "Is this real silver?"

"Of course," said Sirius.

"You think the coat of arms would come off?"

"Probably. Walburga would raise hell, you know."

"And Orion?"

"Oh," said Sirius, smiling again. "Orion would remember."

Fletcher sighed, placing the goblet back on the table. "Good day, then, Sirius."

"Good day, Dung."

*

_Wormtail,_

_In a hurry, write only a bit: Black _is _buggering Lupin. Or he did last night, anyway. Heard them at it all last night _and _this morning, actually, randy bastards. Don't know what Lupin's playing at and he's as close about himself as a girl with her private bits, the little buggering ponce._

_My love is in utter despair. Flowers not best course of action. _

_What now?_

_Prongs_

*

To say that James Potter was not having a good day was to give the English language barely a whit of its due. But then again, James had always preferred to use short and explosive words that drove the point across without too much fuss. It had to do with his line of work. For one, the crowd one sees hanging about in Knockturn Alley could hardly be expected to use flowery language in conducting their businesses. For another, James Potter hated wasting time on long speeches.

And so it happened that while there were several other words accurate enough to describe James' current state of mind and spirit that morning, he reckoned none of them would be quite as eloquent or satisfying as "shit".

"Shit," he repeated, for good measure, loving the sibilant sound that started that one syllable and clearly enunciating the 'tuh' that ended it.

"What's wrong with you?" said Shacklebolt, who was nursing a cup of coffee next to James on the kitchen table. Mirroring the habits of their betters, there was no set time for meals among the servants as well, although that was pretty much a given considering that any one of the Blacks could require their services at any given point in time. Those in the Blacks' employ knew to eat whenever they could before they are called upon again, taking portions from the large pots of stew or soup Bones the cook kept simmering by the back of the stove and a pie or two from the pantry.

One thing that James could say about the Blacks was that they didn't stint on anything and there was always plenty to eat whenever a bloke felt peckish. On the other hand, James thought that the Orion Black's partiality to coffee laced with chicories was decidedly suspicious for someone born and hailed in London, and the fact that the other servants seem to have picked the habit up as well didn't make him any happier.

James placed his slice of toast back on the plate and shrugged.

"Got much sleep at all last night?" the older man went on. "You look like death warmed over."

Trust Shacklebolt to be utterly lacking in creativity regarding his similes. James reached out for the jar of marmalade even though it was closer to the older man.

"Does Black make a habit of sleeping with every valet that comes his way?" he said, indirectly answering Shacklebolt's question while trying to do some investigating of his own. He was still waiting for Wormtail to give him more information on Lupin, but that didn't mean James couldn't work on the other side of the link, as it were.

Shacklebolt laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Not that I know of. This is the first time, though I can't very well say anyone was surprised about the current turn of events. Barring the Blacks themselves, that is."

"How do you figure?" said James, spreading a liberal amount of marmalade on his toast. "Lupin's no beauty, as I see it. Not a bad looking bloke, I suppose, but not what you'd call striking, is he?"

"That he certainly isn't," agreed Shacklebolt. "Yet it's obvious enough that young Black wanted him since the day he got here. Has to do with the fact that Lupin always acts so imperturbable, you see, so Sirius thinks of it as a challenge."

"Get a rise out of the Ice Queen," said James. "Sounds like Black, anyway."

"Exactly."

"He's not a bad bloke, all in all?"

"Who, Sirius?" Shacklebolt waited for James' quick nod. "No," he dragged the syllable out. "Not in the same way as the others are, anyway. There's not much harm in the boy, really. He doesn't even engage in the same intrigues that the Master Orion is all known for."

No, thought James. Not that you'd know of it, anyway. Aloud, he said, "Sounds like he's not exactly the Master Orion's ideal son."

"They get along well enough. Sirius takes care of his own side of the business, from what I've heard. You know how it with these families: they can be as cruel as suits their purpose, keeping their real faces from showing to the public. I say, even lock secrets up behind—" Shacklebolt stopped, tilting his head to one side as if he was listening for something that James couldn't hear. "I think Slughorn's calling. I'll be seeing you, then, Potter."

James nodded, watching Shacklebolt as the older man drained the last of the coffee in his cup before leaving the table.

James hadn't heard Slughorn at all, and he doubted the head butler would be needing anything from the groom so early in the morning. Most of the ton wouldn't even be stirring from their beds at this time of the day, much less need their horses hitched to the carriage. So Shacklebolt had probably said something he shouldn't have and is skivving off the conversation in a less than subtle manner. James sat back on his chair, pouring more tea into his cup. It wasn't such a wasted morning after all.

He was starting to feel a bit better, considering that he stayed up all the night before keeping an eye on Black and Lupin to make sure that the latter wouldn't try anything weird while the daft young master was otherwise occupied. He supposed neither of the concerned party would be thrilled to know that James had been spying on their private affairs, but Dumbledore wouldn't be too happy either if Lupin happened to be Voldemort's man after all and got to Black first.

Not being able to look at Lupin in the eye ever again was probably a small price to pay for all this, all things considered.

*

_Prongs,_

_Think about whispering words of love to the sire. But only if it seems that you have no chance at all with young Black. We don't know what Lupin wants with him, after all. Could be he's in it for the money. Or the shag. _

_Still catching up with my reading, but I'll be able to tell you a good story soon._

_And stop wanking to what you've seen, pervert._

_Wormtail_


	5. Unlaced

The Sins of their Father

Author's Note: Harry Potter and the rest is to J.K. Rowling.

This one took a disgustingly long time in the writing, so I hope everyone still remembers what happened before this chapter. God knows I don't.

*

Chapter Five: Unlaced

James was going back down the kitchens when he saw Slughorn talking to a blank space of wall at the end of the hallway. Instincts urged him to lie flat against one of the doors lining the corridor and listen in to what Slughorn could be saying, but knowing that he would be in a very awkward situation if the butler turned around and caught him, James had to satisfy himself with a cough.

"Potter. What are you doing here?" Slughorn turned towards him more quickly than James expected from a man of his girth. The old man's face betrayed only impatience tinged with suspicion, which was a normal expression enough for a butler who had just caught one of the kitchen help wandering two floors above the rooms allowed the other servants. Only James noticed that Slughorn's hands had tightening into fists against his sides and that the older man wouldn't quite meet his eyes.

"The master sent for his coffee and Dolores was occupied with that biting kettle," said James.

"Kettle?"

"That one singing rhymes all the time. Tried to bite her hand off when she tried to get it off the stove this morning."

"Not again," said Slughorn, distractedly. "It's because Sirius keeps on performing magical experiments in the study, I know it. All that magic has to leak down the kitchens. Is Dolores all right?"

James shrugged. "Her hands were still attached when I last saw her." More's the pity, he added silently. Nobody much liked Dolores Umbridge, who had been serving the Blacks longer than everyone save Slughorn and who seemed to think that this meant she was somehow better than everyone else.

"Well, what are you standing there for? Get back down there and help her with that kettle!"

"Yes, sir," said James, moving towards the stairs. He could feel the butler's gaze following him down the landing although he resisted looking back, not even giving the wall Slughorn had been talking to another glance. There was time enough for that later.

James Potter can be quite a patient person when it was required of him.

*

Remus placed the tray on Black's desk, noting with a slightly raised eyebrow the goblets already resting there and the open bottle of rum.

"Begging your pardon," he said, grating some chocolate into Black's cup. "But I hope you did not drink that before having your breakfast, sir."

Black pulled up a chair beside the desk and threw himself on it with the sort of indolent grace unique to members of the ton belonging to his age group. The movement caused his dressing gown (which had been tied at the waist very negligently in the first place) to reveal enough pale skin for Remus to ascertain that Black was wearing nothing else underneath.

"Of course not," said Black. "I might be daft, but I'm not suicidal."

Remus wanted to say that being the first would probably drive him towards the latter but forebore. "Have you been entertaining someone, then?"

"Nosey, aren't we?" said Black, buttering a triangle of toast. "Is someone paying you to ask questions, Lupin?"

"I hope you were not dressed like that," said Remus. The cup was a third full of grated chocolate before he poured hot water inside from the china pot, adding only the slightest dash of milk before placing the cup back on the desk.

Black took a bite from his toast, chewing carefully before answering, "I don't believe business matters need to be discussed in jackets and waistcoats."

"But not in dressing gowns either," Remus pointed out, trying not to stare as Black licked the crumbs off his lips. "You might give people the wrong ideas."

"You know Lupin, if you can do something that would unnerve the receiving end of your conversation, do it. People tend to do daft things when caught off guard," said Black. He seemed to be aware of what Remus had been doing, because he paused long enough to smile at Remus, tilting one eyebrow in a manner that can only be described as pornographic. "Don't you agree?"

Remus fought to keep his expression neutral. "Perhaps."

"I'm supposed to dine with my cousin Bellatrix this evening," said Black, breaking eye contact. "Can you see if that blue jacket would be decent enough to satisfy the old peahen?"

"The one with the silver trimmings, sir?" Remus waited for Black to nod before sketching a bow. "If that is all, then."

Remus managed to close the door behind him before methodically cursing Sirius Black to all seven levels of Hell under his breath.

*

_Prongs,_

_All right, you can't blame a bloke for having a bit of fun now and then, even if it's at your own expense, but to make amends (you can't say I'm not generous when I want to be):_

_Be at the Leaky Cauldron at around dinner time tomorrow. A certain lady with autumn in her hair likes to drop by the place before going home, and you might find some topics of interest to talk about over steak and wine. Might as well put your fifteen Galleons to good use, yes? _

_Wormtail_

*

"Fancy meeting you here, Miss Evans."

Lily Evans was sitting on one of the tables nearest the fire, bent down over a notebook while tapping the tip of her quill absently against the corner of her lips. James had to clear his throat several times before she looked up at him with a small smile.

"Potter," she said. "I drink pumpkin juice with my steak and potato salad."

It took several thundering heartbeats' worth of seconds before James decided to copy Lily's attitude. "As do I. Capital. You would of course let me join you?"

"Of course." He could not be sure if she was laughing at him, but looking at her green eyes, he decided he didn't really care. Lily nodded at the chair across from hers. "Sit down, Potter."

James did. "Wormtail said we should take wine with our steak."

"Well, I'm sure Wormtail doesn't care about his figure," said Lily, wryly. "I would like some butterbeer, but nothing would really beat a Three Broomsticks blend and I don't see why we should bother otherwise."

"Don't let Tom hear you say that," said James.

"Tom likes me."

"I don't doubt it." James sighed. "I didn't know you were part of the Order."

"Dumbledore likes to keep the members' identities privy only to a few," Lily pointed out. She didn't need to: that was one of the first things that a member of the Order of the Phoenix learned upon initiation. The only member James had seen personally aside from Dumbledore was Wormtail himself. And now Lily Evans. "But are you sure this is a good place to be talking about this?"

"Look around you, Evans." James pointed at the general direction of the crowded bar with his chin. "People are dropping by for drinks after work, or eating dinner like we are, all engrossed in their own petty concerns. Do you think anyone would pay attention to a pathetic bloke trying to catch one girl's attention? And even if that were the case, it's not like they can hear anything in this soundtrap of a cave."

"Perhaps not," Lily agreed, albeit grudgingly. "You're a self-satisfied prat, aren't you?"

James grinned. "It comes with the job."

"I'm sure." Lily gestured at Tom the bartender who was hovering by James's right elbow. "Do you mind placing our order, Potter?"

"Not at all." James turned towards the old man with what he hoped was a winning smile. "Steak and potato salad for me and the lady, Tom. And pumpkin juice to go with that."

"Wine's best with steak," Tom said.

"Trust me, Tom," said James. "I already tried that. Worked like a Squib's charm, it did."

*

_Wormtail,_

_Tips on impressing a wonderful lady?_

_Prongs_

*

"You're going to ask me about the rebellions," said Lily, as soon as Tom had placed the food in front of them.

"Tell me what you're working on," said James, who had no idea what they were there for. Aside from the obvious, of course.

"Of course, the Daily Prophet's trying to tone things down, giving events a couple of lines' mention at most, nothing to make the general public worry about their necks at nights," Lily's voice trailed off and she gave James a sideways look.

"I didn't hear it from you," James promised.

"Rebellions," said Lily, promptly, sticking her fork into the steak to emphasize her statement. "Seven of them in the past couple of months alone, and maybe even a few before that which we have dismissed as general dissatisfaction among the goblins. It's not uncommon for them to fight among themselves, of course."

"Goblin rebellions?" said James, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh, I know what you're thinking. Those things belong only to boring History of Magic texts, right? Well, that's what we thought too, in the beginning. But there's been some talk about the giants joining in, and even the halfbreeds—Hagrid's been sent to the mountains, remember? Do you think that was for his health?"

Rubeus Hagrid was well known in the Order as one of Dumbledore's staunchiest supporters and it was no secret either that he was half-giant. James had never met the man himself, but there had been no lack in the speculations among the other members as to why Hagrid had to leave London at such a critical time.

"All right, Evans, let me be honest with you," said James, leaning his elbows against the edge of the table. The slight lifting at the corners of Lily's mouth did not deter him. At least, not for more than a few seconds. "You know that I'm working blind here and you and Wormtail know more about the situation than I do." He raised his hand when Lily opened her mouth to say something. "I know that there are very good reasons for that. I've been sent to the field after all, and there's nothing to stop the household I'm working for to interrogate me in whatever way they think necessary, which means it's best for me to know as little as possible. But indulge me in this: why do I need to know about this?"

"Why are you working at the Blacks', Potter?" said Lily.

"If you already know, I don't need to tell you."

"All right," said Lily. "I can play that game. We both know that you were sent to the Blacks because we need the family's support. On another hand, you're focusing on the heir because Dumbledore thinks that we can get Sirius Black's sympathies more easily than Orion's."

James shrugged and sat back on his chair. "That's been interesting so far. Pray, continue."

"On the other hand, I was assigned to investigate further into this matter concerning goblin rebellions. A simple enough assignment until we found out that giants and halfbreeds were involved as well, something that has never happened before because goblins have always been an insular lot. Not that giants are any better, mind you. Dumbledore is afraid that someone is bringing all of these creatures together. That someone is leading the rebellions." Lily paused to take a bite of her steak. It was tender enough that James had to wait only a short time before she could swallow and talk again. "Now Wormtail has arranged for us to meet here. What do you make of that?"

"You cannot be serious," said James.

"In his most recent letter to Dumbledore, Hagrid spoke of a man the giants called the Hunter," Lily went on as if she hadn't heard James. "Hagrid has only glimpsed him, of course. They didn't quite trust him yet."

"And let me guess," James cut in. "This Hunter chap was pale, skinny, had shoulder-length black hair and a penchant for buggering their valets. Perhaps he is even known among the more upstanding members of society as Sirius Black?"

"It's not a joking matter, Potter."

"No," James agreed. "Have you met the bloke, Evans? There is no way that goblins would listen to him. No one in their right minds would listen to him, barring his tailors and the winesellers. And maybe Lupin, sometimes. And they're all getting well-paid for their efforts."

"Maybe that's what he wants people to think. Come on, Potter, don't tell me you bought into Black's foppish image wholesale."

"Well." Remembering his earlier conversation with Shacklebolt, James had to reconsider a bit. "Maybe not. But what has he to gain with all these insidious little games when his family is powerful enough to oppose Voldemort openly? Does that make him one of our allies, then?"

"That," said Lily. "Is what we're expecting you to find out."

They did not talk much after that, which was just as well because more people were coming into the pub and James would have had to shout to get Lily to hear him. And considering the happy topics of their conversation, James thought that was hardly an option. He was almost relieved when Lily finished eating her steak (James had finished eating ages ago) and began to gather her things into a small purse.

He walked her to a cab, offering her his arm with exaggerated flourish that made her smile. Her hand was long and slim, with tapering fingers. Fingers that would probably be callused by writing too much. James wondered how they would feel like, in his hands.

"Perhaps we could go out, for butterbeer sometime," he said, holding the door of the cab open.

"At the Three Broomsticks? That would be quite a long way from here, wouldn't it, Potter?" said Lily.

"It would be well worth it."

*

_Prongs,_

_Even though I have never styled myself as a Casanova, I must say that I'm flattered you should ask:_

_Let her do the talking. Appear interested. Maybe even ask her about her work? Don't lay it on too thick, though. Girls are known to see past through all that._

_Wormtail_

*

Later that night James pulled on his Invisibility Cloak and retraced his steps to the part of the third floor corridor where he had seen Slughorn talking to a wall earlier. He didn't really know what he was going to do once he gets there, since he had no fondness for speaking to walls himself, but he figured it was something that needed further investigation and James had always considered himself one of the meticulous sort.

He was already halfway up the stairs when he began to pick out voices from the nighttime noises common to houses as old and large as Grimmauld Place. Cursing under his breath, James flattened himself against the wall and hoped that whoever was walking down the hallway would not take it into their minds to go downstairs for a glass of water or some such daft thing. The staircase was wide enough that anyone can pass by without brushing against James, of course, but he didn't like to take chances.

"You have five nights, Lupin. Less than a week. What do you intend to do, at the end of that time?" James dared to edge closer to the speaker, recognizing Slughorn's high-pitched voice. He was careful to place his feet on the part of the stairs nearest the wall, where the wood was less likely to creak.

"Let me handle that on my own, Horace," said Lupin, shortly. The valet had been out of sorts the whole day, looking uncharacteristically irritated about something. Not that James had had much chance of observing the other boy (Lupin's job required him to keep to the parts of the house James had no business being, after all), but he had seen Lupin attacking his third helping of curry as if it were a personal affront during dinner and had taken careful note.

"Where are you going now?" Slughorn went on.

"My room. Perhaps you haven't noticed, Horace, but it's past midnight and everyone has already turned in for the night."

"Do you think I'm stupid? You're going to Sirius's room, aren't you?" Slughorn's voice had devolved into a hiss. James was almost crying in frustration as he strained to listen to the conversation without having to crawl on all fours to where the two were standing.

"No. That's where I came _from_," said Lupin. "Do I have to keep reminding you that I am the man's valet?"

"What's your game, Lupin?"

"Trust me, Slughorn," said Lupin, whose voice sounded louder although he was talking more softly. James flattened himself against the wall more vigorously as the valet rounded the corner and James caught sight of Lupin's black livery. "There is no game."

James was close enough that he heard Lupin when he added, "Not this one," to himself.

The plot, James thought, was thick enough to serve as Christmas pudding.


	6. The Downward

The Sins of their Father

Author's Note: Harry Potter and the rest is to J.K. Rowling.

Despite the title (I'm a total NIN fan), most of this chapter was written listening to Kidney Thieves's _Trickstereprocess_. The song "Pleasant" in particular being one which theme I borrowed from shamelessly. And finally, more actual R/S thrown in, although I prefer to call this the 'recap chapter' in which I lose the voice I used in the previous ones. Haha.

Chapter Six: The Downward

James looked at the lunar chart again, chewing on his thumb (a habit his mother had tried in vain to break him out of). No matter how he looked at it, sideways and upside-down, the chart still told him that there were only five more days before the full moon. Five days that Slughorn had mentioned to Lupin as the only time the valet had left and considering that the very first thing James saw Lupin doing was checking a lunar chart, James was willing to bet the devil his head that Lupin did not need reminding of this fact.

Feeling somewhat like trying to swim through a pool of jelly, James made a mental list of all the facts he'd gathered so far. There was John Lupin, who was probably killed by Voldemort although no one can really be sure of what had happened to the bloke. Years later, John's halfblood son Remus shows up working for a household primarily known for their pureblood mania. Remus Lupin who had a very pressing reason to work as Sirius Black's valet, presumably, because James had heard about the way the Blacks treated the servants they didn't like and James was sure even a masochist would need to be hard pressed to go through something like that.

And of course there was Lupin's conversation with Slughorn. The butler had been firmly convinced that Lupin was up to something, something probably related to Sirius (whose name had come up more than once), and that Lupin only had five days left to do whatever it was he needed to do.

James frowned, mulling over what Lily had told him earlier. Some members of the order suspected Sirius Black of leading goblin rebellions. But why rebel now, after years of keeping mum and counting gold at Gringotts? Because Voldemort was trying for social reforms now, James answered himself. Reforms that made provisions only for purebloods. Ironic for the goblins to rally under a pureblood, then. But James appreciated the gesture: dark creatures and halfbreeds alike thumbing their noses at the self-styled Lord by using one of his own (a Black no less) as the figurehead of their cause.

Black was Lupin's lover.

Lupin was bound by some way to the coming of the full moon.

James sat up his bed suddenly. Slughorn was extremely suspicious of Lupin, but had accepted the boy into the household anyway because he probably didn't have a choice in the matter. And who had the happy power to curtail the butler's actions? The Blacks, of course. There was no reason for any one of them to want Lupin to work for them. No reason at all, except of course Lupin happened to be Sirius Black's plaything.

"What if," said James, softly so no one else would hear him. He had his own room like the other servants, of course, but Slughorn was known to walk around the house checking to see that all the bolts were still bolted and that nothing has caught fire since the last hour he had done his rounds. "Black and Lupin knew each other before Lupin got into Grimmauld Place?"

A good question, James, he told himself. Another question would be _how_?

Because Lupin was a werewolf. That was what consulting the moon chart was all about. That was why he was always wearing gloves (it was impossible not to come in contact with silver in such a museum of a house). That was even probably how he got all those scars.

So Lupin was a werewolf. How convenient for Black that his lover was a halfbreed who can so easily slip in among the goblins and other assorted dark creatures that he was supposed to be leading to revolt. All that was needed was an excuse to have Lupin become a quasi-permanent fixture at Grimmauld Place. And so the Blacks hire a new valet. Black couldn't have gotten himself a better spy if he'd made one with a blueprint.

One problem that presented itself to James was that Lupin never left the house at all, never received any kind of correspondence (James had made sure to check that) and rarely talked to anyone but Slughorn and their employers. If he was Black's contact, where the hell did he get his information?

There was also the chance that all of this was buggery and there was a different reason entirely why Lupin was there, but James found that unlikely.

First things first, James decided. Most of his hypothesis rested on one fact, after all, which he needed to prove before he could work on the rest: he needed to find out if Lupin was allergic to silver.

*

Soft rustling of leaves touching each other, grass part to make way for soft-footed steps, twigs break.

The night was a myriad of sensations: shadows against a darker background; smell of the forest and the air itself, sharp and almost metallic; the low-hanging branches brushing against toughened flesh; the sounds. And always, the soft silver glow of the moon hanging bloated from the sky.

He was confused, sweeping the horizon with eyes that glittered amber in the dark, sniffing the air gingerly, ears straining for sounds other than the noises of the night and all its denizens.

There it was: a scream. Thundering footsteps. More twigs breaking.

He followed the sound, heart racing in excitement, movement unhurried because he was painfully aware that no prey has ever escaped him.

But he was hungry.

*

Remus woke up to the taste of blood.

"_Lumos,_" he said, reaching reflexively for his wand although the tip of it ignited even before he could lean over to where he had left it on his nightstand.

He pressed one hand against his lower lip, which he had probably bitten in his sleep, the pain of the gesture pushing away the grogginess left by interrupted sleep. His fingers came away bloody and at least there was a reason for that taste, warm and salty and coppery that he found disturbingly comforting. Familiar.

"No," he said softly, leaning back so that his head was resting against the headboard of his bed. He wasn't sure if the word was a denial or a negation, but the sound of his own voice in the silence of his room made him feel somewhat better, so he said it again, "No."

Several seconds passed with him looking listlessly at the cracks on the plaster of the ceiling, his hand rising desultorily to dab at the cut on his lip with the cuffs of his sleeves. He tried not to lick at the wound, frowning a bit as it began to itch.

Well, Remus thought, there goes all chances of me getting more sleep tonight.

He noticed that his hands were shaking when he reached out for his wand, but he ignored that as he swung his legs out from the bedcovers, feet brushing the cold stone floors before he could slip on his slippers. "_Nox._"

*

One moment, Sirius was having quite an interesting dream concerning a dragon and treacle tart and the next he was half-sitting on his bed holding up his wand against someone's neck.

"Lupin?" he slurred, eyes focusing on the unmistakable shock of hair. Because he was Sirius Black, he did not lower his wand. "What happened to you?"

The other boy made a noise at the back of his throat, an almost growl that he cut off abruptly with a sigh. Now that Sirius was not so stupid with sleep anymore, he noticed that Lupin was wearing nothing but a flannel nightshirt and that there was something like dark wet string trailing down his mouth to where his collar revealed a pale V of his chest.

"Remus?" he said, more softly.

Lupin flowed into the bed next to Sirius, the sudden movement making Sirius drop his wand with a helpless curse. He heard the clicking sound that was his wand hitting the floor but then Lupin was straddling him, the warm weight that Sirius felt keenly even through the bedcovers, and he suddenly found it hard to even remember to breath.

"Touch me," said Lupin thickly, rocking his hips against Sirius's. "Please touch me."

"Sweet Merlin," Sirius hissed, through clenched teeth. Lupin's hands curled around his collar, pulling him forcefully upright.

"Please, Sirius," Lupin gasped, almost whimpering. They were close enough that Sirius could feel the boy's breath tickling his upper lip, the fluttering of Lupin's eyelashes against his cheek.

Sirius reached out with one hand and slapped Lupin hard enough the boy's head snapped backward, the action leaving a rent in the atmosphere of the room, and Sirius felt a change in Lupin: a focusing of attention.

"Did that feel good?" said Sirius, tracing the curve of Lupin's reddened cheek gently with his fingertips.

Lupin smiled, not meeting Sirius's eyes. "Fuck you."

"Such language! Is that what you want?" said Sirius, with a ghost of a smile. He waited for Lupin to shake his head before pulling the boy close, tugging at his hair to tilt his head slightly, kissing him. There was a strange metallic taste on Lupin's lips, wet and sticky. Sirius remembered the stringy stain trailing down Lupin's chin, realising that it was blood as the tip of his own tongue found the cut on the boy's lip. Lupin made a small complaining sound as Sirius began sucking on his lower lip, his hands reaching up to tangle into Sirius's hair, pulling at the strands until it felt like he was trying to tear them from the scalp.

"Don't," said Lupin.

"And who assaulted a sleeping man in his bed, hmm?" Sirius stopped anyway, satisfying himself with licking away the blood from Lupin's chin, following it down to the boy's prominent collarbones. Lupin didn't ease his grip on Sirius's hair. "You can be such a pushy little slut, did you know?"

"Who's enjoying it?" said Lupin, moving forward and tilting his head to one side as Sirius began to nibble on his neck. Sirius could feel the boy shiver on top of him as he slipped his hands under Lupin's nightshirt to touch warm skin underneath.

"Lupin, that's not the way a servant talks to his master."

"Your hands are cold." Lupin's voice was almost sulky, breathless. Sirius didn't know what had gotten the boy so rattled in the middle of the night as Lupin obviously was, but Sirius found that he liked Lupin better when he was acting more like an actual human being and not like a servant.

"Well, you're warm," Sirius pointed out, tugging at Lupin's night shirt to reveal more of the boy's skin. He kissed Lupin again when the boy opened his mouth to say something, tongue flirting lightly with Lupin's lower lip before he pulled back. "You know if you wanted to talk you could have just asked me."

Lupin exhaled. "No."

"Tell me."

"You think I'll tell you my secrets," said Lupin, finally meeting Sirius's eyes. "Because right now I am vulnerable."

"Do you have secrets, Lupin?" His hands stilled in their exploration of the other boy's body, moving away to start unbuttoning Lupin's nightshirt. Lupin, distracted, didn't seem to notice. He was naked under the shirt, Sirius found out.

"We all do," said Lupin, with the suggestion of a shrug.

That was true enough, Sirius conceded, although it took him a moment to put Lupin's words together and understand what they meant. "What should I do now?"

"Sirius—"

"No, tell me."

Lupin closed his eyes and took a deep breath, cupping Sirius's face tightly between his hands. Sirius felt the boy's nails biting into his skin even as Lupin leaned over to rest his forehead against Sirius's.

"Make me forget, for a while," Lupin whispered, voice tight again, growling. Sirius shivered in spite of himself. "Lose myself in you. Force me."

Sirius pushed Lupin off, ignoring the boy's moan of protest. His breathing sounded too loud, harsh, even to himself. He threw aside the bedcovers, fingers trembling over buttons, sound of clothing tearing. Lupin watched him, eyes wide and showing too much white. His pupils were dilated, the black of it swallowing the color of Lupin's eyes.

"Ride me," said Sirius.

Lupin said nothing, crawling instead towards Sirius, over Sirius, until he was straddling the latter again. And then Sirius was thrusting inside the boy's opening, not bothering to prepare Lupin, hands keeping a viselike grip on Lupin's hipbones. Lupin hissed in pain, leaning down to bite at the tip of Sirius's ear, murmuring incoherently.

"I gave you an order, Remus."

"Oh," said Lupin. "No, no. Don't."

"Yes," said Sirius, flatly. He stopped moving. "Move for me."

"No. Don't stop. Please."

Sirius took one hand away from Lupin's hip and pinched him viciously on the side, making him jump. "That's it, work yourself against me. Ride me, Remus."

Lupin gave a dry sob, moving to kiss Sirius on the mouth before starting to do as he was told.

*

Remus was drifting off to sleep when he remembered.

"You were asleep when I arrived," he said, against Sirius's shoulder.

"Yes." Remus felt Sirius hesitate a moment before he asked, "Why?"

"It's nothing," said Remus, burrowing his face into the warm space against Sirius's neck. He felt the slight rumbling of the other boy's laughter before he heard it, and then Sirius's lips on his forehead. "I just thought I saw—but it's not important."

Sirius pulled the bedcovers over both of them. There were several dark stains on the finely woven material, the biggest of which were roughly the size of a Knut. Remus's blood. Earlier on, Sirius had licked blood off his body, had worried at the cut on his lip and sucked like a proverbial vampire.

"You're frowning," said Sirius. "I can feel it."

Remus said nothing. Sirius Black's safety was the least of his concerns. He let his hands trail down, tracing the sparse down of dark hair on Sirius's stomach.

"Again?" He could hear the smile in Sirius's voice; the smug, pretty little bastard.

"Again," said Remus. "All night."


	7. The Speed of Pain

The Sins of their Father

Author's Note: Harry Potter and the rest is to J.K. Rowling.

The lines Remus says later on is a butchered version (people should never para-phrase poems, but let's just think that Remus was distracted at the time) of these lines by Oscar Wilde: The only way to atone for being occasionally a little overdressed is by being always absolutely overeducated.

This took (and is taking) ten million years to write. But for the sake of Regulus Black, I'm going to finish this if it's the last thing I do. If things go as planned, there are only about a couple chapters more to this before it finally ends. Until then, please bear with me.

*

Chapter 7: The Speed of Pain

_Prongs,_

_You weren't very appreciative of my story-telling prowess. Now how about a riddle_?_ Dead men tell no tales, but they work in mysterious ways._ _Would want to write more, but my work is quite pressing. _

_Good luck with the lovely Miss Evans._

_Wormtail_

*

"Potter?"

James looked up from the spoon he was wiping with a rag and some of Madam Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. "Yes?"

"You do realise that you've been polishing that same spoon for the last half hour, don't you?" said Lupin. He put down a shining silver tureen on the table with the rest of the silverware and crossed his arms. "If you have something more important to do, then I suggest that you do it now. I can take care of the polishing by myself."

Well, that would never do. James placed his spoon with the forks with a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry. There's been some trouble at home, see. My brother just up and wrote me."

"That is still no excuse to be negligent with your job," Lupin pointed out, but less coldly.

"I'm sorry," James said again, picking up another silver object at random and saw with a grimace that it was one of those trays with very ornate handles. "Don't you have family of your own, Lupin?"

Lupin shrugged. "They're dead."

"Oh," said James. "Uhm, sorry. Still, er, you must have spent a lot of good times with them, yeah?"

"You have the subtlety of a troll, did you know?" said Lupin, conversationally. "My parents died when I was young. My uncle took me in."

James opened his mouth, but Lupin went on, "He's dead, too. You could say they were not blessed in the longevity department."

I wonder why, was James's sarcastic thought. Out loud, he said, "Mine as well. I mean, my parents passed away when I was younger. Of course, by that time we were quite buried in debts and I guess my dad was a bit relieved when he went."

"I don't need to know this, Potter," said Lupin.

"Well, bugger me. You know that curiosity about one's fellows is the normal way, yeah? Not to sound like I'm boasting, but there are quite a number of birds who would give anything to be where you are right now."

"Where I am?" said Lupin, with a theatrical frown. "And why would they want to be polishing silver, Potter?"

"Don't be daft. Where you are now, you're talking to me." When you're not eating Sirius Black's arse, James added to himself. He thumped one fist against the table to emphasise his point. "Who wouldn't want to know about the fabulous minutiae of my life?"

"You've knocked a goblet over," Lupin pointed out, reaching down to retrieve said object as it rolled towards his foot. "And as for your love life, Potter, I can't say that I'm as interested in you as those females that you are talking about."

"Oh," said James. He leaned over to where Lupin was half-crouched trying to retrieve the stray goblet and, his heart carefully pounding against his rib cage, he gently brushed the spoon that he had been holding for half an hour (if Lupin was to be believed) against the pale side of the valet's neck where his livery ended in a high collar.

Lupin made a soft noise, sitting upright and looking at James with one eyebrow raised. "What are you doing?"

"N-nothing," said James. "There was a fly."

"I didn't hear anything." The other boy touched one hand against the part where the spoon had briefly been, two fingers moving absently to stroke the reddening area. James couldn't help staring, and he wondered if Lupin noticed.

"My mistake, then," James said, cheerfully. "Sorry."

"That's the fourth time you've said sorry," said Lupin.

*

_Wormtail,_

_Do you really think this is quite the time for riddles? And don't talk to me about work. Argh. That Lupin is driving me mental. The little bugger's name suits himself, that much I can say. Complete _lunatic_, that one._

_I think I need to talk to Miss Evans again, if you know what I mean. Think you can arrange another 'chance encounter' for us in the future?_

_Prongs_

*

Remus rapped his knucles once against Sirius's door before opening it.

"You called?" he said, eyeing the boy's reflection on the gilt-edged mirror that dominated the far side of Sirius's chambers.

"Thank you for waiting for my permission to enter the room," said Sirius, catching Remus's eye in said mirror and throwing him a dark look.

"You called for me," said Remus. "I knocked."

"Do you think I let you get away with too many things?" said Sirius, idly. He untied the strings to his dressing gown, letting it fall down the floors with a sigh of a sound. "I need to get ready for dinner in half an hour."

"That's your prerogative," said Remus. He stepped closer to where the other boy was standing, gathering the discarded gown into his slightly shaking arms. "And it amuses you that it is so."

"Hm?" Sirius gave him a creamy smile.

"You like having the power of death over people," said Remus, softly.

"Who doesn't?" Sirius shrugged. "Those who say they don't, they never had enough to know what the feeling is really like."

"You're beautiful," said Remus. "You can get away with anything."

"And to what do I owe this analysis of my character?" Sirius's tone was airy, but he frowning, stepping closer and seeming to tower over Remus although there was only half a head's difference between their heights. "What's up?"

Remus felt the boy's hands on his before he realised that he had clutched the dressing gown tightly against his own body. He pulled away as gently as he could, and Sirius allowed him to do so without protest. "Nothing."

Sirius started to say something else, but changed his mind and went back to examining his reflection in the mirror instead. "What do you think about the blue waistcoat?"

"I think red is more your colour." Remus folded Sirius's dressing gown carefully before placing it on the back of a chair. "Sirius."

"Hm?" Sirius paused, as if hesitating. Remus knew this for the act that it was; he found it hard to imagine Sirius being unsure about anything. Angry, disinterested, fashionably bored, yes. But never unsure, because he was Orion's heir, and losing his confidence in front of anyone--even a lowly valet--would be like walking unarmed across a country of Red Caps. "You're unravelling, Remus."

Tell me something I don't know about, Remus thought. Aloud, he said, "When did you start calling me by my name?"

Sirius tilted his head to one side, considering this. "I don't remember. When we first fucked, maybe? Does it matter? _You_ call me by my name."

Remus did not answer, leaving Sirius to continue admiring his own reflection in order to look in the closets for the red waiscoat.

"Don't you think it's too early for that shade of red?" Sirius called over his shoulder.

"The only way to make up for being overdressed is by being over-educated."

Sirius laughed softly. "You've just murdered Oscar Wilde there, did you know?"

"He's a self-centred little faggot," said Remus. "When he's not being a genius."

Sirius snorted. "There's still some time before dinner."

It took Remus several seconds to pick up on what Sirius had said, and he was glad that he had his back turned to the other boy as he felt his cheeks grow warm. "No there isn't. Do you know how many buttons there are on that shirt?"

Sirius's answer was not verbal, and Remus felt himself being pushed against the closet with more force than he thought was necessary. He sighed, closing his eyes. The roughness of Sirius's calloused fingers, his faintly sweet spit and warm breath, the sibilant breathlessness every time he said Remus's name; Remus savoured everything. He wanted it to hurt, because hurt leaves behind an impression, something he can remember, later on.

He reckoned he might as well enjoy himself, seeing as how it was their last time together.

*

_Prongs you STUPID GIT_.

*

James gave out a hissing breath of pain, fingers scrabbling against the pocket of his jacket where he had secreted the half of the two-way parchment that he shared with Wormtail. He fished it out gingerly, expecting the thing to burst into flames like an ignored Howler the moment he examined it closely. What he saw instead were four words, in a shaky handwriting that James could read upside down and which he only recognised as Wormtail's after several seconds' worth of inspection.

"Prongs you stupid git," James mouthed the words with a frown. Wormtail had called him worse names, that didn't disturb him at all. But James had to wonder at the Heating spell that Wormtail thought necessary to accompany his message with. Obviously, Wormtail wanted to catch James's attention badly enough to risk casting a spell on the parchment that could be traced to its source by a powerful wizard. And knowing Wormtail, who was cautious to the point of cowardice, James knew the young man would not dare risk his neck like that unless he had no other choice but to do so. James could hardly think that calling himself a git warranted such risk-taking, no matter the word's accuracy. So what did Wormtail want?

As if on cue, the ink from Wormtail's message began to run across the parchment to form a small rectangle. Words appeared to fill in the enclosed space, and James recognised the letters to be of a typeface usually employed in newspaper articles. Barely noticing the shaking of his hands as he brought the parchment closer to his face, James read:

_continued from page 1:_

after what happened during the Gringotts Valley of the Kings project. Some speculation as to the connexion between these two events have been voiced by sources who wish to be left unnamed.

"Of course it has something to do with Lupin's death. When have you ever heard of a werewolf attack right in the centre of the city? I don't know why they didn't kill the poor boy as well. Oh, of course he was innocent, but then again, so was Lupin and his wife."

"I told him again and again that going against Voldemort was not going to do him good, but did he listen? And who's going to take care of their little son now?"

As to that question, the minds of the public was laid at rest when Tom Riddle, Lupin's cousin and next of kin, presented himself to the Wizengamot as the legal guardian of Lupin's son. Riddle, a reclusive bachelor who lives in the town of Hogsmeade, was only too happy to adopt…

Werewolf attack, thought James. And Riddle. Was that what Wormtail whinging on about? He tried to remember what his colleague had said in his last message. It had been something about riddles and dead men. Lupin had said earlier that his adoptive uncle was dead. Needless to say, Wormtail wanted to tell James something about the late Tom Riddle. 'Work in mysterious ways', Wormtail had said as well. How did that figure with the whole scenario?

But the ink on the parchment was behaving oddly again. The edges of the rectangle softened and curved into an oval shape, and across the space inside this oval, spidery handwriting spelled out:

_**Tom Marvolo Riddle**_

_died this 31 October 1965_

_the only surviving descendant of his noble family_

_his passing is mourned greatly by his friends._

There was a hazy photograph that James ignored. He was thinking of only one thing: John Lupin died in 1968.

*

Wormtail took a deep breath and dipped the tip of his quill in the ink bottle again. His hand was trembling badly enough that he missed the mouth of the bottle twice. Cursing softly, he began to write. The final clue, the information that Prongs needed to know, or Sirius Black would surely die and the pair of them, Wormtail and Prongs, would have failed. Wormtail knew that the blame would--_should_--be his alone. He had known, even before he had arranged Prongs's meeting with Lily Evans, that Remus Lupin was a werewolf. He was good at hunting down information, after all. That was why Dumbledore had paired him with Prongs, who was good at playing in the field. They made a brilliant team.

He never told Prongs half of what he knew. He tried, of course, but he knew they were watching him, and he knew they were getting suspicious.

Now, Wormtail was afraid. He suspected that Prongs had confronted Lupin somehow, in order to ascertain whether the latter was indeed a Dark creature or not. If this was true, then Lupin knew that it would not be long before word about his real nature gets out. He would act quickly. Wormtail has to act more quickly still.

'Tom Marvolo Riddle,' he wrote on the two-way parchment. And then, 'i aM loRd voldemorT'.

He wondered if he should write more, but before he could decide, he heard a loud crash coming from outside his room. This was followed by footsteps. Slow, even, unhurried. They knew where he was, and they can take their time. Wormtail took his wand from the table and pointed it at the two-way parchment. The ink still glistened, wet and black. Wormtail focused on this, hoping that Prongs would manage to fit the pieces of information together, trying not think of what was going to happen next.

The footsteps were getting louder. Wormtail tapped his wand against the parchment, setting it on fire. The other half, the one with Prongs, would burn as well. They would not be able to trace the message to its recipient. Wormtail had made sure of that.

And then he raised his wand and performed his last spell: "_Expecto Patronum_," he said, sending the small, silvery rat to Dumbledore.

*

"What the fuck."

James felt his knees wobble. He chose not to let them embarrass themselves and sat down the nearest bench. He did not know how long he could have stared at Wormtail's most recent message, and he would never find out because it chose to burst into flames at that particular moment.

"Fuck!" James repeated, dropping the lot and licking at his fingers.

"Oi!" said a low, rumbling voice from the far side of the stables. "Are you building a bonfire there, Potter? You do know the place is covered with dry hay, don't you?"

"Accident, Shacklebolt," James called back. "I've put it out now."

He put his fingers to his mouth and thought furiously. 'Tom Marvolo Riddle… I am Lord Voldemort'. What in the name of Wormtail's arse did that mean? James chewed absently on the tip of his forefinger. Riddle was announced dead in 1965, and he had the gall to adopt Lupin's son in front of the Wizengamot three years _afterwards_. But maybe that wasn't Riddle at all, but someone impersonating him? Was Voldemort impersonating Riddle? Was that what Wormtail's obtuse allusion meant?

James sat up. He remembered how the second sentence had been written. Three letters that should not have been in upper case: M, R and T. Riddle's initials. A name that was an anagram of his old name. Riddle had to die in order for Voldemort to be born, but the self-styled lord was still Tom Riddle in the Ministry records.

Which meant that it was actually Voldemort who adopted Remus Lupin, fifteen years ago. Lupin was Voldemort's man, the one Voldemort had sent to kill Sirius Black.

*

Sirius did not need to be a Divination expert to know that the family dinner would be a horrible affair. Family events usually were. Not even his cousin Bellatrix's cutting wit (usually aimed at Sirius's direction) managed to relieve the tedium of smiling, being polite, and trying to appear as if his thoughts were anywhere but in bed, getting drunk on Ogden's Finest. And so it was with a happy sigh that he waved goodbye at the back of everyone's heads as they Floo-ed back to their own homes and he was free to return to his rooms.

Where Remus was waiting for him with a gun.

"Really," Sirius drawled. He was more than a little drunk already from the Muggle wine that Lucius Malfoy had brought over for dinner, and his eyes watered while he tried to focus on the slim metal cylinder of the barrel that Remus was pointing in the general direction of Sirius's heart.

"I have thought about poison," said Remus.

"Oh no," said Sirius. "That would ruin my complexion. As will asphyxiation."

"I know," said Remus, sweetly. "I think we both agree that we should keep your pretty face as intact as possible. So. One bullet to the heart. That would be nice and simple, would it not?"

Sirius shrugged. "Don't you think I'll fight back?"

"Do you want to?"

Sirius thought about it. Remus had served as his valet for around one month. The span of time was too long, in Sirius's opinion, for a carefully planned assassination attempt. Not that he was complaining, but to be perfectly frank, Sirius had expected Remus to act long before he did. Now, Sirius realised that during his prolonged proximity with Remus, the boy had noticed something about Sirius that most people of his acquaintance ignored or missed entirely.

"No," Sirius finally admitted. "Why should I?"

"I'm sorry, Sirius," said Remus.

Sirius considered closing his eyes. But then he decided that he would really prefer to die while looking at Remus, who was not a bad sight to die to, really. When he heard the gun go off, Sirius thought, Remus, you look terrified.

*

James heard the gunshot even from the stables.

"What was that?" said Shacklebolt, running for the doors. James followed the head groom, his heart thumping loudly against his rib cage with the combined forces of exertion, adrenalin and sheer dread. It was pitch dark outside the stables, and Shacklebolt was only a tall shadow in front of him. They were only several paces from the back door to the main building when James saw something at the corner of his eyes that made him stop so suddenly he almost fell on his face. Shacklebolt barely paid him notice. The head groom had already opened the door and was running into the house. James could hear the shouts, the high-pitched questions.

"What was that?" and then Orion's voice, "Where is Sirius?"

Even though his instincts were screaming at him to follow Shacklebolt into the house and find out what has happened, James stepped back and approached the yew that grew between the house and the stables. Silvery light was tangled among the yew's branches, easily visible in the darkness. As James approached, the light began to take form. James had seen this happen once before, when Dumbledore had called to assign him to this particular mission. This way of communication was tricky at best, because the spell was easy to trace, and it was possible for other people to overhear the verbal message. But of course, James didn't have the two-way parchment any more.

The phoenix Patronus opened its mouth, and Dumbledore's voice called out, "Wormtail has fallen. Stay where you are."


End file.
